


Les Années Folles de Maitland

by LifeIsTicketyBoo



Category: Bright Young Things
Genre: 1930s, 1930s Cinema, 1930s Glamour, 1930s Paris, Alcohol, Bittersweet, British Character, British Politics, Café society - Freeform, Cameos, Canon Gay Character, Coming of Age, Domestic Fluff, Drugs, Fish out of Water, Flappers, Fluff and Angst, French Characters, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Homosexuality, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Insecurity, M/M, Partying, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Realistic, References to Drugs, Riches to Rags, Secrets, Sexual Humor, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Slow Romance, cameos from canon characters, meeting new friends, new life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24065044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeIsTicketyBoo/pseuds/LifeIsTicketyBoo
Summary: Away from the United Kingdom and here in Paris. No money, no job, no status, but always with a need to visit a joint or two. C'est la vie, as they say.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 27





	1. Out With the Old, In With the New

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first time doing fanfics after a long time of not writing at all, so apologies if it's a little sloppy at first. This is dedicated to a very special character from a movie called Bright Young Things, one that had a depressing ending and needed some resolving that takes away the bitter taste it left. WARNING: There might be some homophobic slurs and overall references to homophobia due to Miles being a gay character, so I'll put a warning in case that it may come.

_"Some of these days  
You'll miss your honey  
Some of these days  
You'll feel so lonely_

_You'll miss my hugging  
You'll miss my kisses  
You'll miss me, honey  
When you go away..." ___

__

____

The train slowly skidded to a halt at the Gare de l'Est, its rusting gears shrieking like a wounded animal as the muffled sound of the address system announced its arrival for everyone to hear. The car was half-filled with people skittishly waiting to bolt through the doors and meet whoever waited on the platform, already imagining the moment they will throw their arms out for a hug and chatter about whatever they missed for the past few days. It could be weeks, months even, but certainly, there was something they could share.

Miles wasn't one of them. Tucked at the end of the car in a seat by the window with a lost, weighty expression plastered over his face. His eyes, shielded with his trusty sunglasses, were still red from shedding tears for the past hour or so. He knew no one familiar was waiting for him out there, not when they were out and about in jolly old London. He would have joined them on another party, dancing like a madman and partaking in some whiskey to stimulate his body and spirit only to repeat the cycle through the entire night. He would have dragged them off to his family's estate to indulge in some naughty salt and hear the latest hearsay about some old magister's dirty little liaison with a young, gorgeous 'fille de joie', as they would call it here.  
But circumstances changed things for him, and for his beloved Tiger. He barely even had time to say goodbye to his closest companions before the dire need to get to the train on time forced him to leave him early. Too early. Any time would have been too early if it means he'd have to say goodbye, but he never had the choice by that point. Fate decided things for him and swept him away like an amber-colored leaf in an autumn wind, leaving everything he knew behind. His mother insisted to at least take a few thousand pounds with him, exchange it to francs without anyone's notice once he gets there, but all he could do is to offer the tearful woman a respectful peck on the cheek before making himself turn away and out of the massive building that will no longer be his home.  
Only when he heard the rumbling footsteps of exiting passengers did he snap out of his delirium, though only for a moment. He slowly lifted his body off the seat, adjusting his sunglasses with a sniffle as he went towards of the door, knowing that it will close shut in his face if he isn't quick on his feet.  
He wanted to stay there, have the whole car for himself until some more of them show up, but he couldn't. Someone was waiting for him, but nothing but a stranger, one last kindness from his mother.  
"I'll make them get you a nice spot somewhere, all nice and toasty." She said, "All it takes is a call, really."  
The briefest of smiles crept onto his lips at the memory of her, contorting right after with the urge to hold back his wistful tears. His mother was a wonder, a clueless but kind woman who always spoiled him rotten. Lots of money meant he could have anything he wanted from when he was but a tot: Shiny new toy cars, clothes bought from the highest of brands, every sweet he could ever dream of and trips to all kinds of fancy places with his beloved mama. He still remembered the Bösendorfer piano she bought for his 10th birthday when he said he began taking interest in learning to play the piano. He lived life to the fullest, happy, and without worry, growing from a precocious child to a dashing young man who stole the heart of men and woman alike, but he had standards, as someone of his status should have. Flirtatious hookups for a night or so were nice enough, but none of them managed to leave an impression, feeling as if they see him as nothing more than a daily catch to let out some sexual tension that bottled up inside. He appreciated the thought, but he always looked for more.  
And that blasted greed has brought him here.  
A pudgy man with a greasy mustache stood by the platform, standing firm in his place like one of the sculptures Miles would find in Trafalgar Square. The small man's beady eyes looked down, then up the young man who stood in front of him. Miles furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance, pursing his lips and trying to act as if he still has some sense of dignity left. "My... My mother," He spoke, "She brought you here, hasn't she?"  
The man stayed quiet, giving him a simple nod. Grumbling something in French, he turned his back to Miles and began walking away. Miles pouted, not eager to follow this walking Humpty-Dumpty of a man, but the knowledge that the man was his key to find a bed to sleep in overrode his sense of pride, and he followed him with a huff.  
Not a word has been switched between them as they walked towards the exit, although Miles certainly heard some more French mumbles from the man's direction. Despite his annoyance, he couldn't help but be wary of what his blabbering meant. Were those words of respect? Disdain? Complete and utter boredom? He didn't seem like he planned to admit it to his face, so all Miles could do is guess, assume what lies behind these quiet murmurs, and interpret it to himself in his own mind. The best he could guess is that this French fellow saw him as nothing more than a sad little boy who ran away from home.

The worst part was that if it indeed was his thought, then he was right.

Soon enough they exited through the grand gateway of the station (which Miles allowed himself to appreciate before hurrying after his temporary companion again), and the man raised his hand to summon a sable taxi that parked for them nearby. The man gestured towards the vehicle, silently telling Miles to follow him, and the boy obliged him, nervously tugging at his scarf as he stepped towards the seat beside the driver's, but the blasted Frenchman got to it first. Exhaling in defeat, Miles decided not to make a hustle of it and slipped into the back seat. Soon enough, the taxi charged away towards his new home.  
He kept his back perfectly straight throughout the entire drive, gazing at the window and trying his best to keep his chin up high and look as respectable as possible, despite his less than dignified status at the moment. He didn't want to give them the pleasure of finding amusement in his miserable state. He wasn't going to let anyone forget who he was: Miles Maitland, a party aficionado, besotter of men, and one who never ever says no to a daring challenge-

"Boy."

Miles froze for a moment, unsure of what he just heard, then slowly turned his head forward in confusion. He looked at him like a child caught in the act of daydreaming in the middle of class. It was the man who kept him company for the past half an hour.

"Tu me comprends, mon garçon?"

The young man knitted his eyebrows. His French sadly wasn't at its best. The chubby man took a deep breath. "We get there soon, so no going around, making trouble." He said with the best English he could muster, despite the thick accent lingering off his tongue, "Heard about you. You like trouble."  
Miles would have smirked in amusement that he heard of it if he didn't spend the last few hours weeping to himself at his situation, so he remained quiet and nodded in reluctant obedience, his posture unfazed. Soon enough, the taxi slowed down next to an apartment building, build with cream-colored Lutetian Limestone. It was truly a magnificent piece of Parisian architecture, one that anyone with a good taste would appreciate. The small man gestured the driver to stay in place before grunting towards Miles, telling him to hurry out already, and the latter did just that, lifting his eyes to take one more look at the building's exterior before having to step inside it. Sadly, it was more mediocre inside, every nook and cranny of the lobby showing signs of aging. The floral wallpapers covering the walls looked worn-out, the window looking as if there was a thin layer of dust on them, and the door creaking loudly as they walked inside and were greeted by an old woman with a warm expression, wearing a beige dress covered in flowers that matched her surroundings perfectly. "Bienvenue, mes chers." She spoke, her voice soft and welcoming in a motherly kind of way as she turned her olive-green eyes towards the boy who stood before her. "Est-ce le nouveau?" She asked, looking unfazed by his sudden appearance.  
Miles stayed quiet for now, listening in on their conversation in French, which he barely understood. The only word he could figure out is 'nouveau', recalling the style of painting saw from time to time back in London, although it was clear this wasn't what they had in mind. By the time the two were done, the pudgy man turned to him. "She will help. Knows this place well." He said to him, then looked down and dug his hand into the front pocket of his jacket. Miles arched his eyebrows in subtle surprise as he handed him a folded paper.

"Read this when you get there. Bonne chance, mon garçon."

Miles gave him a silent nod as the man turned away and left, his task done for the day. Only when he knew he wasn't around anymore did he allow himself to take a deep breath of relief. He glanced down at the papers, his curiosity piqued, but the kind old woman stopped him from opening it right then and there. "Come with me, mon cher." She said, thankfully with a better English than the one who accompanied him minutes ago, "Your apartment is ready for you."  
Miles nodded, his nerves restraining him from uttering a word that might sound off to her. However, the way she spoke somehow managed to calm these nerves a bit as if to reassure him that he is safe from some looming danger waiting for him outside. They walked towards and up the staircase, rising up in angular spirals like some abstract painting, and then the woman led him into a hallway. The sounds from the other apartment doors rowed on each wall gave Miles a sense of anxiety, for some strange reason. Some times he heard yells, he surely heard a bark of sorts, and for a moment he was certain that he heard some kind of a moan, probably the kind he knew all too well. The old woman gingerly picked out a set of keys, checking out each one of them to see which one fits, with Miles shifting his body uncomfortably behind her while waiting, his eyes glancing around as he tried to fathom this new home of his.  
The apartment itself was small, but not to a microscopic level that would remind someone of solitary confinement. It was big enough to have space for all the basics: A living room with a round dining table with three wooden chairs, a sofa with a floral slipcover (as in theme anything else in this building, apparently) connected to a kitchenette. "You also have a bedroom, of course, and a shower room." The woman explained to the young man as he allowed himself to inspect the apartment. She could notice something regal about his mannerisms but decided not to mention it and make him feel unwelcomed by it. After all, the nice man in a mustache said that he should be treated like any other tenant residing in her building.  
Miles's eyes stared at a pot of flowers that stood beside the window, filled with a bundle of daisies and lilies that emanated the sweetest of smells. Probably picked fresh as a welcoming gift, he assumed, and he most certainly appreciated it. He then turned to her with a brief nod to ensure her that he understands and listens.  
"I'll come tomorrow to see how you do." She added with a smile, "We will need to talk about the rent, yes? "  
Miles nodded again, quietly swallowing his spit at the mention of paying money, especially since he has no job whatsoever to bring it to the table. His only saving grace was that the woman seemed nice enough to understand his situation, her smile warm and comforting in a way that he didn't see all that often. It was the smile of a woman weary of her years, one that probably spent years taking people under her wing and giving them a home. It seems that she recognized his reluctance to speak to a stranger, so she stepped away from him before walking to the door. Before she opened it to head back to her station, however, she turned her head to look at him from over her shoulder and parted her lips to say something, but once again she held her tongue. Miles could only guess that she doesn't want to intervene in business that was never hers, watching her as she left anyway.  
Only when he was alone did he allow himself to relax a bit. He pulled off his striped scarf and hung it over the back of one of the chairs, and placed his hat on the table. Slowly, he went to take off his glasses, exposing his vulnerable eyes. He placed it on the table as well before deciding to have a tour around the other rooms, then go and have a kip on whatever bed they offered him in there.  
Something told him it was unfair to think that, to be so haughty about his new home, but years of living in the lap of luxury have done their work on him. Everything was his for the taking, and he snatched it right away every time. Now he had practically nothing, bare naked in a world he never got to experience for himself... until now, that is.

_The stove has hints of rust on it. The sofa smelled like mothballs. The air reeked with dust._

Once he was a happy man. He had friends, status, every opportunity to pop in a joint and have a gay old time with his friends. He never remembered every party he was in, but he remembered having fun every single time.

_The bathtub liner had cracks on it. The mirror was slightly murky. The toilet had strange spots inside it._

He looked back at his times in London fondly. He always did. The small little details lurking in every corner of the city were the only reason for the city becoming the gem that it is now, especially to his lot, the kind of lot that went treasure hunting at three in the morning before leaving to go and indulge himself with champagne at the Ritz-Carlton.

_The bedroom has a sweaty stench to it. The mattress was creaking. It was all dull. So painfully, utterly dull._

He sat down and took in everything he just went through, barely realizing that he was in London a few hours ago. It went by so quickly that he could swear it was nothing but a bad dream, a toxic fear that gnawed at his mind.  
He wanted it to be a bad dream. He wanted it oh so very badly.  
His face contorted again, the damned tears returning as the weight of his situation dawned on him. He looked at the pillow and picked it up, holding it in his arms like a teddy bear he probably abandoned, along with everything else in his life. The loneliness crept back in and he closed his eyes so tightly that he could feel the pain prickling his eyelids, hoping that seeing nothing would make it go away, but it didn't.  
Tears began staining the pillowcase in tiny dark spots, the deafening silence now broken by his sobs. He lowered himself onto the bed, shrinking down his body into a fetal position as he hugged the pillow tight, his face pressed against the fabric. No one was there to comfort him when he finally whimpered...

"I want to go home."


	2. A Day's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new morning dawns on Paris, and a certain young man begins to rebuild his life anew. Shame that his French is less than average and he's desperate for a day job.

_"I'm no millionaire but I'm not the type to care  
'Cause I've got a pocketful of dreams_

_It's my universe, even with an empty purse  
'Cause I've got a pocketful of dreams_

_I wouldn't take the wealth of Wall Street  
For a road where nature trods  
And I calculate that I'm worth my weight in goldenrods_

_Lucky, lucky me, I can live in luxury  
'Cause I've got a pocketful of dreams..."_

The passage of time can be a funny thing when one is busy with his thoughts, powerful and unrelenting. At times it moves by like nothing at all, but sometimes it is as if you are covered by a heavy, thick blanket in the midst of a boiling hot Summer that causes your mind to grow numb and brings a pounding headache to your temples.  
Miles woke up from the latter, or probably the faint sound of someone knocking on his door. He sniffled and smacked his lips together, scrunching his nose at the dreadful taste in his mouth as he looked around with glazed, half-opened eyes, straying away from the blinding daylight peering through the window. Everything was a blur, a great pain in his head causing him to hold back a whine.

"Urgh, D... Denise? Denise, I... I need aspirin... Bring me some..."

One of the maids in the estate, he recalled. Relatively young compared to the clucking older hens that served the Maitland family for a few decades by now, always gossiping to one another about things that were never their business. He himself found them babbling about her when she first arrived but never got to find out if she learned of it. Rubbing his face with the palm of his hand, he waited in a daze for help that didn't come. The longer he waited, the more agitated the pain made him feel.

"Nrgh, for goodness' sake, Denise, I told you I-"

He blinked twice, his surroundings gradually becoming more clear. He recognized the plain walls that confided him, the dusty smell knifing through his nose and reminding him of his place. He closed his eyes again and sighed deeply as his lip twitched into a subtle frown.

"Ah... right. Yes. No maids in this... ugh, old place."

He grunted and massaged the sides of his head with his fingers, feeling his eyes burning. He remembered crying, a lot. Did he cry himself to sleep just like that? It sounded rather strange to him, but then again, this entire predicament was extraordinary to begin with. Reluctantly, he uplifted himself into a sitting position and lowered his feet to the ground. His shoes were still on, and he dreaded to imagine how his hair looked at the moment. He forced himself on his feet and waddled towards the bathroom, turning the light on and walking straight toward the sink in order to wash his face with some water, their cool temperature helping to mellow down the pain, but only a bit.  
He wishes he didn't look at the mirror right after that, but somehow his eyes remained glued to the horrid reflection that gazed back at him: His skin was pallid, his eyes still red and puffy from his endless weeping and his brown curls, ones he took much pride in, were mangled from shifting violently in his slumber. He glanced towards his jacket that rested unevenly on his body and his crumpled pants, hoping there would be at least someplace he can clean it up. Hopefully, the Parisians know what a 'Launderette' means.  
The knocks on the door outside echoed through the apartment, causing Miles to wince as the pain came back in sharp pulses, wanting the bloke who bothers him to go away and never come back. Still, it wouldn't be proper not to say anything. The idea of people getting suspicious of him caused him to tense up. His eyes darted around to find a towel, turning to one that was hanging on a small metal hoop beside the sink, and he hurried to wipe his face dry and smooth his hair in the mirror before hurrying towards the apartment door. As he expected, it was the landlord lady.

"Ah, finally. I was getting worried."

Miles blinked slowly, his mind still fuzzy from sleep. He kept himself from looking directly at her to hide away the signs of his turmoil. "Mmm... Ah yes, erm..." He stammered, trying to piece together a sentence in his head, "I, uh... I overslept."  
"Yes, yes, of course. I just wanted to see if you are alright." The old woman reassured him, "You were so quiet yesterday. It's like I speak to a ghost."  
Miles gave her the briefest of smiles, a pitiful attempt to say he was fine when the truth is all too clear. The woman frowned her brow in worry but hesitated to speak about it, as per usual. "Look, chérie, I... I know that you are new, but you look bad. Very bad." She began saying worriedly, "You didn't say anything yesterday, and you don't say anything now. Are you... ill?"  
Miles stiffened for a moment, realizing she tries to pry information out of him and he has no idea how to explain it to her properly, if he should even bother to explain at all. Just what he needed, someone butting in and leaving him trapped in a corner, with no way out unless he forces it to be that way. "I appreciate the kind gesture, madam, but I assure you I'm fine." He said, sniffling again as he rubbed his cheek with his eyes staring at the doorframe and away from her gaze, "Positively fine, really."  
"It does not seem that way." The woman replied, shaking her head in disbelief. Miles was able to notice the concern in her eyes with but a glance before turning away again. He opened his mouth to tell her that again, but then another sound took its place. His stomach grumbled, crying out for food. He forgot that he barely ate ever since he found out about the letters. He wrapped one of his arms around his belly, clutching onto it as if hoping that it would shut it up. It grumbled again and he could feel his cheeks heating up with shame. "Look, I... I can't do this right now, would you please leave me be?" He pleaded.  
"Mon dieu, but you're probably hungry." The woman said sorrowfully, only pitying him even more, "My granddaughter is coming, she can-"  
"I've said I'm fine." Miles cut her off immediately, the way she was looking at him made his stomach feel even worse, "If I wasn't fine I wouldn't have been here talking to you, would I?"  
The old woman sputtered a bit, seemingly caught off by his assertiveness. Miles could feel a pang of guilt in his heart when he looked at her again, exhaling some air that strained his lungs in order to compose himself. "Look, I, er... I dearly appreciate your concern, madam. Truly, I'm grateful." He said with a more quiet voice, "But I have, um... things to do. Jobs to look for."  
The woman nodded, accepting his reasoning without saying it aloud. Deciding to give him space once again, she took a few steps back. "Yes, yes. Very well. We will talk about rent later, then." She said with another nod before walking away. Miles peeked at her as she left, hoping she hasn't taken his outburst to heart, but quickly sneaked back inside and closed the door when his stomach began growling again.  
He did mention an important point, though, and said point was to find himself a day job if he wants to stay in that apartment for long. He remembered the small man from yesterday giving him a paper, blinking as he realized that maybe he should read whatever was given to him before he can step out into the so-called 'City of Lights'.

_Compared to his time in London, everything else seemed so dimmed down._

He read the missive while sitting on the bed, the letter detailing everything he needs to know about the public identity he must use unless he wants to get into unnecessary trouble again. His name was Stephen DuPont, a child to a French father and a British mother, who encouraged him to start an independent life in Paris instead of his humble home in Saint-Malo. His father was absent due to his work as a fisherman, leaving their only child with his mother often enough to cause him to develop her accent, although he knows some basic French (which was ironically fitting in Miles's case).  
It was a good start, all in all, knowing that his mother even spared him the trouble of concocting an alias that most people to see was a ruse, even if it meant making others do it for her while she indulges herself in cocaine. The rest was more about the little details he needs to use to hide away his true self, although Miles was doubtful that people would be that perceptive. It still hurt to read how they ask him to avoid too many flamboyant mannerisms, almost as if they ask him to rip out a piece of himself, crumple it like paper and toss it into the nearest trash bin. He loved being dramatic, he loves letting his emotions take over and allow his body to move around in dynamic extravagance that was unique to him and him alone.  
He decided that was enough for now and folded the paper before tucking it into the pocket of his blazer. He can continue the reading after he finds a way to bring money to his table. He grabbed his accessories, adjusting his jacket into place as he headed towards the door, making sure his sunglasses are on first before slinging the scarf over his shoulders and heading out. He should ask the landlord for the key's location once he's back, though it wasn't as if there was anything worth stealing in there.  
A cool autumn breeze hit his face as he stepped out of the apartment building, greeted by the sight of French civilians walking to and fro past him, the sound of blaring car horns meeting his ears and bringing back that soreness in his head momentarily. He bit his lip to hold back the pain before hurrying to track down a newspaper stand nearby. A city without at least one or two of them was no city at all, and it didn't help when the first one he found was at best six minutes away from his home. _Six minutes._ It was the equivalent of taking an hour to drive from one street to another.  
With a frown of disdain, Miles approached the newspaper stand, managed by a middle-aged vendor who looked bored out of his mind and ready to leave the place without looking back, and even prepared to put up a bit of a fight so he could snatch one of these for himself, but a daunting realization caused him to slow down and rethink the idea.

"Right. I... barely have a franc on me. No point in that."

He rolled his spectacled eyes to himself, regretting his foolishness for not even taking a dozen pounds for the road before leaving the estate. Looks he has no choice but to use his wits and buried instincts to get what he wants, but no need to get dirty for it. Oh no, most certainly not. All he needs is some quick thinking. He decided to find an opening and slip in between the crowd of French commoners, hungry for a taste of the latest news before they must march on to an excruciatingly monotonous day job in some small office or a filthy factory (the thought alone was enough to send a shiver of disgust down Miles's spine). The uncanny resemblance to an average morning in London almost brought a smile of amusement to the young man's thin lips. _Almost_.  
His mind was thrown back into reality, however, once he noticed a free space at the very corner, inches from where he stood and with everyone else too busy to indulge their greed to see if anyone, dare he say... takes one to themselves out of desperation?  
And he did just that, relieved that no one paid attention to him grabbing one of the newspapers and walking away from this chaos with a triumphant smirk, but it vanished just as quickly when he reminded himself not to look dubious about the shady act he just committed. Once he gained enough distance from the hustle and bustle he opened up the paper and began flipping through the pages to find the one he needs, past the political articles and (regretfully) the gossip columns before stopping on the wanted section at the end. "Right. Let's put this silly brain of mine to the test." He murmured to himself, frowning his brow in concentration as he went through the job ads and inspected the ones he was able to understand. The list of what he could translate was still rather limited, at least to people of his former status, but at least it meant it was short enough to spare him the trouble of forgetting anything meaningful.

"Gardners, bellboys, cleaners, waiters, secretaries. Does it all have to be so downgrading?" He muttered under his breath and sighed.

Thus began his journey, making his way from one place to another with the hope that he will get his catch, a glimpse of hope that someone will take him under his wing and offer him an opportunity to prove himself. And yet, despite coming with all the enthusiasm he could muster, each one of them seemed unconvinced that he was worth the effort, which only worsened Miles's growing fear that he stuck out to them like a sore thumb. Was it his less than adequate French? He remembered enough from his time being tutored by his parents' request. Could it be his outfit? Did he smell funny? Was he tapping back to his buoyant self without noticing? A flurry of worries began circling inside his head, banging against his skull and causing the pain to gradually return, which made his attempt to appear casual to his possible future bosses even harder. By the time he walked out of the seventh establishment that denied him, he could feel the fatigue taking over his body and tempting him to quit while he was ahead. It was at times like this that he would have a good fag to calm his nerves and reduce the bitterness that engulfed him, but the cruel hand of fate denied him even that.  
Rubbing his face in frustration, he had no choice but to have a break before he would fall flat on the pavement and break something that he didn't want to see broken. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to surrender for today, and turned back to return to his apartment, tears prickling in his eyes once more. Everything seemed so damned unfair and cruel and unforgiving. He couldn't understand what he possibly did to make him end up in this predicament, leaving him hungry and lonely and tired and absolutely...  
A flash of red suddenly appeared at the corner of his eye, brief yet clear. He paused and peered over his shoulder to see a man in a crisp uniform walking into the angular building beside him, a neon glow from above prompting him to look up and read the bright letters looming over him.

"Cinema Le Champo." He read to himself, raising his eyebrows as a thought came to his mind, a beacon of light in the whirlpool of dark thoughts that threatened to consume him up to this point. He then lowered his eyes to the wall in front of him, stepping past the pedestrians that blocked his path and staring at a sign belonging to the place, asking for new workers.

A spark of aspiration flashed in Miles's doe eyes as he slowly walked into the building, hesitant but ready to give this one last shot.


	3. Fear No Labour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man who has nothing to lose takes a leap of faith, with an opportunity hanging in the balance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might take some artistic liberty with the Le Champo's design inside since I've never been there, especially in the 30s. Also, used Vincent Cassel as a reference to the manager's appearance.
> 
> Special thanks to Emelye for being my Beta-reader!

_"Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven  
Don't you know each cloud contains pennies from heaven?  
You'll find your fortune's fallin' all over the town  
Be sure that your umbrella is upside down  
_

__

_Trade them for a package of sunshine and flowers  
If you want the things you love, you must have showers  
So, when you hear it thunder, don't run under a tree  
There'll be pennies from heaven for you and me..."_

One would expect a cinema with such an attractive entrance to leave an impression on the inside, but Miles ended up finding a surprisingly humble interior. A small bundle of stairs led him deeper into the establishment, covered with red velvet that muffled his footsteps, navigating him into a long hallway before introducing him to the cinema itself, not too crowded but not empty of patrons either. He stepped forward to take a better look at his surroundings, pursing his delicate lips in curiosity as he tried to figure out who could lead him to the theatre's manager, the one who can make right from the endless series of wrongs that predated in his time here. More staff members in clean uniforms trotted past him to their duties, barely paying attention to the stylish young man that simply stood there and kept thinking to himself.  
Miles hated to admit to himself that removing the sunglasses that darkened his vision would do more good than harm, but another voice in the back of his head forbade him to do so, urging him to look in a mirror first before he makes a fool of himself again. Smoothing any wrinkles left on his beloved blazer and straightening his back with the remnants of his dignity, he walked inside and began looking around for a sign that would lead him to a lavatory. Much to his relief, his French wasn't _that_ bad, and once he located the sign he needed he marched towards the men's room without a second thought.  
Swiftly taking off his sunglasses and positioning himself in front of a sink, he rotated the level handle that allowed the water to pour out, praying to himself that it wasn’t too filthy and scrubbing his face a few times over. It did well enough to mellow the remains of his headache and allow himself to think coherently for a minute, at least until the anxiety of not botching this up returned.  
He then slowly, but reluctantly, looked up at the mirror in front of him to see his reflection for the second time since this morning, which was one time too few for anyone who actually cares about their looks, in his opinion. Much to his relief, however, it seemed that the wretched appearance he had earlier began to dissipate. The puffiness in his eyes began to fade away and a bit of color returned to his cheeks despite the lack of makeup. Miles let out a well-deserved sigh of relief, not enjoying his still sickly appearance but feeling some sort of hope growing inside him. "You better buck up, dear. This is the last chance." He gave the reflection a meaningful stare and whispered some words of encouragement, "One last chance to be better than some fool on the street... because you... are worth it."  
Did it work? It felt like it. His racing heart began to slow down and his hands did not feel as numb. He looked up at his reflection again and exhaled, taking just a few more moments to ready himself before he had to depart from the temporary haven he found for himself. The sounds of quiet footsteps growing louder, however, prompted Miles to put his sunglasses back in a hurry and walk past the cleaner who stepped inside and back to the main hall, a hint of confidence coming back to him despite the fears that he tried to suppress. His bright eyes began searching for anyone who looked respectable enough to be the manager of the establishment, but all he could see was a swarm of red outfits going back and forth in front of him, a few glancing towards him in confusion as if they wondered if he even came to see a movie in the first place. He wanted to turn to them and ask where he might be, constantly parting his lips to try and ask them the question that will lead to him, but to no avail. His fears, despite his efforts, forced him to hold his tongue and avoid doing this one simple action, and he began to worry that he would fail again. Glancing down at the hand that he used to try and signal someone to notice him, he swallowed and tried to pull himself back together before looking up again to see a staff member approaching. A jolt of determination forced him to step forward and finally do what needed to be done before it was too late. "E-Excusez moi?" He hurried to call out to him, seeing the young man had turned to look at him with subtle annoyance in his dark eyes, "J... Je cherche le patron, erm... votre supérieur."  
The young worker blinked at him, giving him a sort of condescending look one would give a tourist who seemed to have lost his way without a map detailing every city with big bold letters, which caused Miles's confidence to waver a bit more, but he was quick enough to hold back the anxiety-inducing thoughts in his mind. The worker seemed ready to tell him off so he could continue his annoyingly mundane job, and Miles closed his eyes to prepare himself for such humiliation, but then another voice broke the tension lingering between them.

"Qu'est-ce qui se passe ici?"

'What is going on here? Oh nothing at all, just me making a damned fool of myself.' Miles thought to himself sarcastically before turning around to see who was the source of the voice, the bitter look in his eyes mellowing down once he inspected the man from up close. It was a middle-aged man in a clean uniform consisting of a white turtleneck shirt with a black business jacket and a matching pair of pants, but no one would take notice of his age with such handsome features: Greased dark hair that complemented his piercing, authoritative blue eyes and a sharp jawline that could crack stone like anything if need be. Miles would have been more than eager to give him a shot, but a more reasonable voice in the back of his head told him that it would be unwise to cross that line, not if he wanted to get this job.  
Still, his sudden appearance left Miles stumped, and he needed a moment to recollect himself so he could speak coherently. "Oh, um... Uh, oui, er..." He stammered a bit at first before continuing to explain himself, "Je... Je voyais que tu, erm... avais besoin..."  
The man instantly raised his hand to make him stop, sparing him the misery of embarrassing himself, thank heavens. "Foreigner?" He simply asked, a clear accent in his voice. Miles nodded, deciding not to say anything else for the moment. Noticing that he understood English, the man folded his arms as he kept an observant eye on the young man that stood in front of him. "You are here for the job?" He quickly asked again.  
Miles nodded again. "Yes, I... I saw you were looking for a few extra hands here." He replied, "And I'd be most delighted to--".  
"To my office."  
Miles blinked slowly as the man marched away, his heart quivering in his chest. It looked like fortune smiled upon him for once. He breathed to calm himself down from what awaited him and followed the manager into another hallway, illuminated by a row of lamps hanging from the ceiling like torches guiding the way through a dark, empty tunnel. The man in front of Miles opened a door and gestured him to follow him inside, and the young man did not waste a second in doing as requested. Once he stepped inside, he was greeted by a small workroom without much going inside it: A perfectly waxed mahogany writing desk stood firm in the middle of the room, coupled with an office chair covered in pristine leather. The desk was perfectly organized, with a bundle of notes stacked on one side and an account book placed on the other, with a fountain pen neatly laid above both. A few certificates were hanging on the walls, congratulations on the recent opening of the small but promising theater cinema. A photo of him shaking hands with a mustachioed chap that was probably some big official rested atop a side table near the wall. All in all, it was the office of a man who had a decent reputation, one who would end up doing great things in the future. He knew enough 'friends of the family' who started off having small starts and ended up as magnanimous tycoons of fortune and fame.  
The manager raised his hand towards the wooden chair placed in parallel to his. "Sit." He said, sounding like it was meant to be a command rather than a request.  
Miles pursed his lips nervously before doing what the man asked, sitting down in front of him with his hands clutched on his lap and his back perked straight. If he planned to use this last chance wisely, he might as well be doing it as he did with the others.  
"What's your name?" The man asked, clasping his hands together on the table as he spoke.  
Miles gulped quietly. "Stephen DuPont, sir." He answered.  
"DuPont." The man repeated the name in a hum, his eyes narrowing a bit, "French, but you don't sound French."  
"My mother is British, actually, but my father is French." Miles did the usual explanation with a small titter, "She's, er... the reason I came to Paris in the first place."  
The man slowly nodded at his words. "Paris... The City of Lights, they call it." He muttered as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from a drawer in his desk. Miles watched him as he scraped a match aflame to light his fag, the one thing he wanted for so long but never got to enjoy, nothing but a luxury reserved for the people who had what they needed, while he had nothing at all.

Oh, how far the mighty have fallen. How far _he_ had fallen.

The manager puffed out a cloud of smoke that danced in the air and looked away. "I should warn you, Mr. DuPont, that just because this city is big and bright doesn't mean life here is." He continued, "If you want to make it big, you have to work, or at least work more than the richards sipping cocktails in their mansions. You get it?"  
Miles couldn't help but be slightly offended at the way he said it, his tone subtly showing some disdain to the people he used to belong to, despite the fact he probably worked with them often. Perhaps it was good not having him know of his origins. Nevertheless, he nodded at the man. "Yes, I, er... understand." He replied.  
"Good. I'm expecting you to do just that." the manager said, still keeping an eye at the boy in front of him as he leaned back in his chair. "I've worked hard myself to build this place, and I plan to keep it going until I get tired of it."  
Miles nodded again, unable but to be intrigued by the man's immense ambition. One part of him did not understand why he aspired to so much with only a small establishment, but perhaps it was because it seemed newer than most, a young build among the old that had yet to be in its prime.  
"Have you been here for long?" The manager suddenly asked, his upper body leaning forward again to observe the one he interviewed.  
Miles, for the first time, slowly shook his head. "Just a few days, really." He answered, fiddling with his hands as the bitter memories of the past few days gradually came back to haunt him, bit by bit, threatening to destroy his final opportunity for good and see him go back to his apartment to spend another day bemoaning his predicament.  
The manager said nothing, only hummed and nodded at the answer that was given, and Miles could feel his muscles become tight with the tension that began to arise in the small space that contained the two of them. The tenser he felt, the quicker his dread resurfaced and the harder it was to keep himself calm, and all he could do was to clench his hands so tightly that his knuckles turned red and his arms began shaking, hoping it would rein in the fear for a little longer.  
But in his mind, he knew that it was as good as done. He knew the man probably wanted to kick him out and leave him out to dry. It was practically there, waiting to happen and all he could do was to berate himself in his own head for his idiocy.

"Are you... crying?"

It took him a moment to feel the familiar sensation of tears pricking his eyes like thorns, and another moment to feel one of them trickling down his cheek. His own sense of pride held him back from looking towards the man who called him out like that, biting his lower lip nervously as he wiped away the tears with his fingers. "I'm... I-I'm sorry, I...", He said quietly before sniffing, "Those days, uh... weren't good. Not at all, a-and I'm so far from home so..."  
Still unable to look at the man in front of him, Miles could only imagine his repulsion. He might be smirking in amusement at his pathetic state, frowning in disgust at his lack of composure and even fuming to a point of ranting about him being so weak, oh so very weak...

"You've got nothing in your wallet."

He froze in his place, unable to understand how one could finish that sentence so smoothly, without a second thought. Slowly looking up at him, Miles finally witnessed his expression soften a bit, even becoming a bit... sympathetic? It was also expectant, though, so Miles quickly gave him an affirming nod. The man nodded to himself right after, showing his understanding as his eyes lowered to the desk in contemplation and the fingers of his free hand drummed on the desk in a steady rhythm, like a clock ticking away and counting the seconds until Miles got another question from him, one that might be the deciding factor of whether he still had hope or not. "As I said, DuPont, not everything is nice here. The number of times I've seen people lose everything like this--" He snapped his fingers, "Is too many. You could be one of them, or you could make a difference and prove yourself by being a hard worker. Are you a hard worker, DuPont?"  
Of course he wasn't. Living with endless leisures at the palm of his hand could do that to a young man, barely lifting a finger for the simplest of tasks that the maids could do for him, but he couldn't just tell him that outright, could he? With that thought in his mind, he simply nodded again.  
This prompted the man to get up and approach him as he took another drag from his cigarette, his pale blue eyes stared back into Miles's face, reaching to his very soul. He then went straight to the point.

"If you come here and work hard, I'm willing to give you ten francs a day, from my own money. What do you say?"

This question was all that Miles wanted to hear, but it still managed to rattle him to the core. Combined with the man's intent gaze, it left him too stunned to respond properly. All he did was give a nod for the hundredth time in the conversation. The manager's lips quirked at his reaction, probably realizing that there was an arrangement in the making. "Excellent. We'll start tomorrow, then." He said with resolve before inhaling from his cigarette and reaching out his hand for a shake, "Welcome to Le Champo, Monsieur DuPont."  
It was bizarre, surreal even, but it happened. He reached an achievement that he feared would never come to pass, causing a confused yet happy smile to creep onto Miles's lips as he got up and shook his future superior's hand without hesitation. "I-I'm speechless, I... Thank you, sir," He said with a giggle before stammering a bit, "I-I mean Monsieur, boss, I mean..."

A genuine smile now appeared on the man's lips, clearly endeared by his spluttering. "Please, Roger will do." He said with a chuckle.


	4. Down with the Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fictitious Stephen DuPont begin a new job, but finds out that the path to a clean slate is not an easy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks for @quackery for being my beta-reader for this chapter!

_"Midnight, you heavy laden, it's midnight  
Come on and trade in your old dreams for new  
Your new dreams for old  
I know where they're bought  
I know where they're sold  
Midnight, you've got to get there at midnight  
And you'll be met there by others like you  
Brothers as blue  
Smiling on the street of dreams..."_

The distant sounds of muttering pedestrians and humming car engines were heard from outside the apartment, an urban symphony welcoming another Parisian morning. Inside the small bathroom, Miles was running a comb through his hair after moisturizing it with a splash of water, with one side slicked to smooth perfection while a bundle of his wavy curls rested over his forehead on the left, displayed for everyone to marvel at. It was his first day of work, after all, and what is a day of work without looking your best for it? In fact, was there ever a day when it was not the case?  
But now it wasn't just any day. This was a special occasion, a defining moment that will lead him back to a good life, or at least an average one with an amount of money that would not doom him to have a kip in some disgusting street corner. It was good to know that what very little was left in this flat included the comb that helped to make his hairdo more tolerable to look at. Well, that, and the fact he was smart enough to take a shower last evening to wash away any sort of repugnant bodily odor that remained on him. A shame that he did not have any lipstick to add a dash of color to his lips, but once again he reminded himself to not be in a rush. 'Take it slow, darling.' He thought to himself, 'You'll get wrinkles if you don't.'  
He took one last look at his reflection, inspecting his face from various angles and stroking his skin with his fingertips to make sure that his complexion remained the same. Thank goodness there weren't any pimples, or God forbid if he found a hint of psoriasis that could be caused by the constant stress that plagued the last few days.  
Once Miles's mind was settled, he took a couple of steps back and smiled at the results of his efforts admiringly, hoping it will bring him a motivation boost for the day before marching out of the bathroom and exiting through the apartment door. As he locked the door with the key the landlady granted him yesternight, he perked his head at the sound of her voice bickering with someone else in French, curiously peeking over his shoulder to see what it was about.  
It was a young girl, one who looked fifteen at best. Wavy auburn hair tied into a loose ponytail and her petite frame covered by a plain white shirt and loose cotton overalls that made her look smaller than she already was. He could imagine her being one of the "hard workers" that his new boss admired so greatly, simple yet dedicated. He would have snooped in for a little longer if it wasn't for the fact that he was dilly-dallying when he had a new job he had to get to. He gave his jacket a quick whiff as he walked away before he could be noticed by the old woman, feeling the hint of staleness tickling his nose and reminding himself to go and get everything washed in a Launderette, or whatever name they would have for it in this city. His only relief was that by the time he gets there, he will be able to switch into a fresher outfit.

Due to a lack of money (and also a lack of knowledge on how the bus system works in the city), Miles was forced to run his way to work with all the strength his muscles could muster. He wasn't using them too often for any sport-like activities, which caused his poor muscles to become dreadfully sore and his breath to grow ragged after only a few minutes of sprinting. Arriving at the crosswalk not a moment after the traffic light beside him flashed a bright red hue, he was relieved that he had a moment or two of rest. He struggled to stabilize his breath as he wiped away the beads of sweat on his forehead, barely giving attention to the civilians who shot him weird glances and keeping his eyes plastered to the traffic light while forcing himself to prepare for a second run. Soon enough, the red flashed to green in the blink of an eye, and Miles was prompted to charge forth and toward the cinema's entrance. It was standing tall with a distance of only a few meters away, urging him to try a little harder, just for a tad more before he couldn’t run any longer, before his knees buckled and he would fall down to the ground in defeat...  
But he didn't. Moments before his body caved in, he dashed up the stairs, just past the door inside, barely missing on opening it. It wasn't much to others, but to him, it was a moment of utter triumph. He bent down and placed his hands on his knees, taking in short breaths whilst sweat trickled down from his head down to the floor.  
"Took you long enough." A familiarly commanding voice expressed in an annoyed tone, prompting him to turn its source. Miles looked up and saw Roger walking towards him with clear impatience written on his angular features. "We have two more minutes until opening, and you--" He paused his exclamation for a moment and squinted his eyes at the young man, "Mon Dieu, boy, you're full of sweat."  
"I-I'm sorry, sir, I..." Miles tried to collect himself, speaking between heavy wheezes and wiping the layer of sweat off with his hand once again, "I-I ran like the devil was chasing me, I... Th-The buses, and-and I just..."  
Roger quickly cut him off with a sign of his hand. "Alright alright, I get it." He said with a sigh whilst waving his hand, "As long as you work well today and don't cause any more trouble, I’ll pretend like it never happened. Now, let me get you a clean uniform."  
Miles gave him a brief smile of gratitude and had enough time to just barely steady his breath. Before he knew it, a co-worker was summoned with folded clothes in his hands. Roger silently nodded at them and Miles took it off the worker's hands and walked straight into the men's room, wasting no time in cleaning himself up and trying out his brand new garments.  
He could do nothing but stare at his unusual reflection as he tied his black bowtie around the wing-tip collar of his shirt. The striking redness of his buttoned jacket with peak lapels and gold decorations around the edge of the sleeves stood out against the scheme of blacks, whites, and greys decorating the room. Despite his desire to mourn the lack of makeup on his face, he shook it off moments later and hurried out of there to reunite with his boss, who raised an impressed eyebrow at the fitting of the clothes. "Not bad, not bad." He murmured to himself, stroking his chin slightly whilst taking a few steps forward to inspect the new worker up close, "You look like one of us now, but now it's time to start working like one. Viens ici, vous tous!!"  
The man's sudden bellow caused Miles to jump in his place, watching him as he summoned the rest of the workers who flooded into the entrance hall like herded sheep, obedient to their shepherd's orders. A row of staff members, similar to Miles in their dressing code, stopped in their tracks and looked at Roger in a mixture of confusion and expectancy, waiting to see what their superior has to say. The speech that started right after was quick and to the point, but sadly Miles wasn't up to that sort of speed yet and could do nothing but stay still in his place and only pretend that he knows what on Earth he talks about. Then again, the way his superior gestured at him over and over and repeated his alias during his harangue made it more than obvious as to what the subject was - or _who_ it was, to be exact.  
He would have continued to ponder what exactly about him, but the sight of Roger snapping his head towards him stiffened his posture and forced him to put those thoughts to rest. "We have a few people here that know English. They will lead you through the positions here." The mustachioed Frenchman explained to him, "They will test you and see how you do. By four I want you at lunch break until four-forty five, and then you continue until nine. Is that clear?"  
Miles gave him a silent nod, a little caught off guard by his sternness but not uttering a word about it.  
"Good, good, now..." Roger turned back to his staff before gesturing three of them to approach. "This is Lamont, Percy, and Herve." Roger introduced the trio, each one of them nodding at Miles when their names were mentioned, "They'll keep an eye on you and report to me how you did, so no, uh... monkey business, or how the Brits say that nonsense."  
Miles restrained an irritated frown, his sense of pride finding it hard to accept such jabs at the country he was born and raised in, but once again he had no choice but to accept it and pretend he was tolerating it. With that decided, Roger gave him a satisfied smirk.

"Wonderful, that means we can get to business. Lamont!"

Thus began Miles's first day at work, bringing with it promise and potential. As soon as the crowd began pouring into the theatre, Miles was already standing by the ticket attendant's station alongside Lamont, the one who manned it up until now. He was a petite boy, looking even younger than him, at the age of 19 at most. His large blue eyes kept glancing about as he instructed his new co-worker on what to do, showing him how to inspect the bought ticket's details and make sure that not a word, nor number, is out of place. It didn't seem so hard at first, only needing to simply read through the hour, date and name before pointing towards the hall as Lamont instructed him, but as more people began arriving in a rush to get to the movie on time, the quicker he had to act and the more frustrated the ticket owners would become, and the harder it was to keep everything under control. Combined with Lamont watching over his back, it became just a tad too stressful to handle everything at once. It didn't help that the boy kept murmuring about his mother over and over to himself, for some inexplicable reason.

An hour or so later, he was transferred to the concession bar to give the man named Herve an extra hand. A man closer to his age, thankfully, speaking with an ear-pleasing tenor and pointing around with surprisingly delicate fingers. 'I'll be blighted if he isn't as new as I am. There isn't but a smudge on these lovely fingies.' Miles thought to himself with intrigue as the man gave him quick instructions of each and every snack's location, one that the new employee had to remember fluidly if he wanted to keep a good pace, or at least a better pace than his short time as a ticket attendant. Much to his relief, however, Herve proved to be a more laid-back person than the neurotic that Lamont was.  
It also helped that they supported one another in action instead of one doing the dirty work and the other watching over him like a vulture, but the process remained all the same. It started off well, but the rapidly growing amount of people brought stress along with them. Despite his best efforts, his pacing began to waver and it was often that he would confuse the sizes of the popcorn boxes, or even hand his customer the wrong candy bar. It was only thanks to his quick thinking, and Herve's assistance, that he was able to correct his mistake before they could storm off in frustration due to his incompetence. Well, at the very least he could walk out knowing he tried harder this time.

After that next stationing was, in fact, in no station at all. Percy, a member of the cinema's team of ushers, was leading him around and explaining to him what to do in a casual manner, his nonchalant smile showing off his gleaming, though somewhat crooked teeth. His entire demeanor was that of easygoing exuberance, a person who did not show a hint of worry about what his job may bring. This was refreshing for a man like Miles who couldn’t do anything but worry about the consequences of his action on duty.  
As per usual by now, it started off nicely, only for once it continued to be nice. In fact, it was probably the easiest task out of all of them. Just lead the viewer's way to their respective seat and make sure no one slips under his radar and snatches a spot for themselves, even if there was only one massive hall in the entire theatre that got occupied in less then a few minutes once the crowd poured inside, hungry for watch some scandalous romance displayed on the massive silver screen in front of them. It was also nice to spend the remainder of his time just walking about with his temporary companion and having a casual conversation about whoever and whatever.  
For once, it seemed like he found the perfect place as the cog in this unresting machine. When the movie was over, Percy explained to him that the cleaner is off sick and that he should go and start cleaning things up and that he will join in right after. Every primal instinct within Miles told him that it sounds too good to be true, but his desire to not let his boss down overcame his suspicion and he forced himself to start looking for any discarded wrappers or popcorn bits left between the seats and floors. Cue said cleaner coming out with his bin bag, catching him at work and yelling at him to get out of there repeatedly, leaving Miles no choice but to let go of whatever he was holding and retreat. Only when he was out at the hallway did he notice the stains of filth in his hands and the fabric covering his kneecaps, slowly processing the humiliation that Percy had just put him through, and suppressed a whimper of shame and disgust as he hurried to wash it off in the men's lavatory.

That damned cheat. He will learn firsthand that you don't want Miles Maitland to hold a grudge against you. At least he was content knowing that he cleaned his hands right before Lunch break.

His newly embittered mood caused him to keep quiet to himself, away from the chattering crew that might plan a new prank against him, and instead he busied himself by inspecting this new place he found himself in. The treacherous Percy explained earlier that since this basement was too small for any use, Roger decided to turn it into a break room for his staff members and allowed them to furnish it as long as nothing left the confinement of these four walls. The contrast to the prim and polished cinema was all too clear: A ragged leather sofa with some old cloth draped over it creaked to the movements of the ones who sat on top of it, paired with a few other couches that created a circle around an old wooden coffee table. Handmade bits and bobs decorated what used to be nothing more than an empty void hidden away from sight and old movie posters were taped to the plain-looking concrete walls. The crowded atmosphere was filled with homely warmth and laughter, along with the scent of a freshly opened bottle of red wine, reminded him of the good old times in London. Those intimate little moments with his friends, the ones that kept their party going for a little longer, were the only reason he suffered through the dullness that filled the gap from one celebration to another.  
As he thoughtfully chewed on his stale piece of bread with a slice of cheap cheese laid over it (which was practically manna from Heaven after a couple of days without putting anything in his mouth), he sneaked a glance towards the group of friends that huddled nearby, noticing their jovial nature with one another. Memories of his old hangouts came back to his mind and made him ponder the uncanny similarity to the people he spent his time with so often: The level-headed Adam, the bubbly Nina, the cheerfully eccentric Agatha, or 'Aggie' as they always called her, Archie and Van and all the others... Those truly were the good days.  
This sense of melancholic nostalgia hasn't left him even when the break was over, the visual of these staff members laughing about still stuck to him, refusing to fade away and allow him to continue his job. It didn't leave him after he returned to try more jobs that Roger placed on him, nor did it vanish when evening came and it was nearing the end of his very first shift in this, the minutes ticking by until he finally gets the payment he craved for so long. It seems like it was too obvious that something was on his mind because the next thing he heard was Roger's voice speaking out and snapping him out of his trance.

"Getting tired, are you, DuPont?"

Only after a blink of his eyes did Miles realize he was staring into nothingness, raising his eyes to see Roger standing in front of him, a shiny coin of ten francs resting on the soft flesh of his palm. He then gave the older man a nervous smile while extending his hand to take the coin from him. "Yes, I'd say so." He replied quietly, "And, uh... thank you. For the money, I mean."  
Roger scoffed in amusement. "Well, I hope you've heard me say that you impressed us today. You're quick, and we need more quick people here." He repeated to him before laying a friendly hand on the younger man's shoulder, "But don't let it get to your head. Keep it going tomorrow, alright?"  
Miles gave him a timid nod, nothing more and nothing less. Only after Roger mentioned it did he realize how heavy his body felt, as if the entire workday gradually turned his body into a pile of lead. He murmured a "Bonne nuit" to the man in front of him before heading to switch back to his everyday outfit and depart to his apartment. His limbs cried out for a good rest, his head was spinning and his stomach began making funny noises. In other circumstances, he would have collapsed right then and there until some taxi driver would take pity on him and drive him home without any payment, as ludicrous as the idea was.  
And yet despite all of that, something held him together. His body worked on its own while his mind wandered elsewhere, gears in his head turning and providing him with something to soothe down the agony.

A want. Nay, a need. He needed to have those kinds of friends again.


	5. Meet Your Neighbors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our protagonist spends his free day in his lonesome, with new discoveries waiting just outside the door.

_"When I'm feeling weary and blue, I'm only too glad to be left alone  
Dreaming of a place in the sun when day is done, far from a telephone  
Hardly ever see the sky  
Buildings seem to grow so high  
Give me somewhere peaceful and grand  
Where all the land slumbers in monotone..."  
_

The first thing he noticed was the room. Not too big but not small either, or somehow even both. The room had an uncanny resemblance to the basement at the cinema but was filled with a jumbled amalgamation of new and old: Lamps in all sorts of shapes and sizes lighting a room that was still dimmed down by darkness, and various couches scattered across the room were occupied by people who were chatting about with their back turned to him. In the background, a track of sorts was playing on a repeating loop as if refusing to change to something else. It was as though he were in some abstract painting that sprang into life around him and he could do nothing but watch.  
Upon a glance to the right, he was struck by a mixture of familiar voices speaking out to one another. There was Adam in his slick suit, Nina's mane of curls framing her round face, the trail of smoke fluttering from Agatha's cigarette holder... Familiar visions that he longed to see, and yet knew they were nothing but replicas of the people he partied with so often. He wanted to talk to them, to tell them about what happened, but he got the feeling it wouldn't reach their ears. Even if he did, he had doubts that they would listen, because it wasn't like they were there, were they?  
He blinked in confusion, and suddenly they weren't sitting anymore. They were already walking away, their figures and voices blurred as the room itself began stretching against the fabric of reality to force them away from him. He shot up on his feet and was ready to follow them, but a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Looking for your mates?"

He slowly turned, his heart filling with dread. He recognized the golden locks, the sharp cheekbones and the flickering blue eyes.

"Tiger...?"

A turmoil of emotions grew inside him, thoughts and feelings he wanted to express but uncertain of how to spell them out. He tried to do it anyway. "Tiger, I..." He swallowed his pride and spoke out, "Look, dearest, I... I tried. I really did try, I-I've tried my damndest to make you feel happy and safe and cozy and-and proud... proud of me."

He paused for a moment, letting these words sink in. Something told him that this wasn't real, so was there even a point to this? Was he only deluding himself?

"I... I made you proud... haven't I?"

Tiger remained quiet and stared at him flatly. He was just like the others, an empty husk lacking substance. No panache. No personality whatsoever. "Come on, Miles, you should cheer up." He said, his voice droned as if reading a line for a botched school play, "You're in a party now, have fun. You don't want to miss it, do you?"  
"B-But Tiger, you--" Miles retorted, beginning to protest only to blink again and find his beloved walking away from him, uncaring about the confused man he left behind. Miles felt more isolated than ever, wanting to chase after the friends he cherished so dearly as the room pushed them further from his reach. The harder he struggled, the more distance grew between them, and it hurt. It hurt so very much.

"Please…" He begged, "I'll do anything..."

\---

He woke up with a gasp, his eyes snapping open as they stared into the decadent ceiling that loomed above him. He would have contemplated the possibility of it caving in on him in the future if not for the dizziness in his head, filled with fragments of some dream he did not remember in full and probably would not figure out for the next hour or so. He felt a small drop of liquid trickling down his nose and taking a rest between his delicate lips. He licked it away and noticed the familiar tang of tear salt washing over the tip of his tongue just as another one dripped down his cheek and landed on the mattress. The realization that he cried in his sleep made him mewl in embarrassment. "Ugh, how shaming." He muttered under his breath, struggling to piece together whatever went in his brain during the night as his hands pushed the blanket off of him.  
It was then that he didn't wear anything except his white briefs. He craned his head towards the bedroom's exit and noticed a glimpse of his clothes laying on the living room floor, scattered around unfolded. He could only assume he took them off before plummeting into his bed for a deep, deep sleep.  
It had been three days since beginning his job at the cinema, and there was rarely enough of a break to let the weight of his exhaustion dawn on him, probably because it caused him to drowse off before anything else happened. After a period of consideration on Roger's end, the manager told him he had the fortune (or rather, the misfortune) of filling the role of an usher, which meant he had to spend the majority of his shift with that dreadful Percy. He could always feel a tiny part of himself slowly withering away at the sight of the grinning plebeian, and all he could do is flash a stilted smile when it seemed he was giving him a glance. Oh, how irksome it was to see him acting as if that trickery with the cleaner never happened, but that is why he remained cautious and used the time they spent together wisely, not daring to give a hint on the plot brewing in his mind. His time in London taught him a few things that he found quite useful, one of them being an eye for details, especially the scandalous ones, and Percy was chatty enough to give him plenty of those.  
After stretching out his arms to the ceiling and rolling his shoulders to reawaken his muscles, he hefted himself off the bed and headed to the bathroom. He turned the light on and stepped towards the sink and let the water pour out of the tap, then splashed his face a few quick times to help rejuvenate himself and make more sense of his surroundings. Once that was done, he slowly looked up at the mirror, and a sigh of relief escaped his lips once he affirmed that he could look at his likeness without fear. He slept soundly enough to allow the curls on his head to frame his round face in a complimenting manner and his ivory skin was spotless despite the hint of a stubble rearing its ugly head. He wrote an internal reminder to buy shaving equipment as soon as possible, but for now, he had other priorities to deal with. Finding something to eat was one of the first as his stomach began to rumble as per usual. With that decided, he brushed his dusky ringlets with watered fingers to settle them down and turned toward the exit, eager to get his free day started.  
He barely gave any attention to his half-naked body as he entered the living room to scrounge up ingredients for a quick meal, mainly due to being used to finding himself like this after a night or two of fruitful dalliances, which happened quite often. He wasn't known to be a successful chaser of men for nothing, constantly searching for curious candidates to help in his romantic escapades, and how could anyone refuse? They always adored his lusty frame, the complimenting chocolate spirals of his hair, his soft lips and the emerald green of his eyes. He was irresistible, really, and no one could refuse him.

All except Tiger, maybe.

Then it came back. The bizarre dream that hit him like a brick and rattled him to the very core with enough impact to make him halt right when he was about to open the small cabinet in front of him. He stood motionless, the visuals flooding his brain and filling him up on everything he missed on. The bizarre blending of furniture from past and present, the figments of his friends having a dandy old time without him, and then...  
His eyes began pricking as the damned tears began to crawl their way out, but Miles vehemently wiped any trace of them with his hand, denying himself the torture of recalling how it ended. This was supposed to be a day of relaxation, and yet his mind forced him to face the pain of it all over again. He hated it, despised it even, but had no idea how to get rid of this angst. All he could do was let out a few choked sobs and shake his head in grief. "A disaster... It's all a blighty disaster," He whimpered to himself, struggling to stop his chin from throbbing as he wrapped his arms around himself, "Why even bother? They're way over there and I... I'm just-".  
The sudden sound of knocking was enough to snap him out of his weeping and call his attention to the entrance door. He was unsure whether to feel relieved or frustrated that his self-pity had been interrupted by whoever stood behind the barrier that isolated him from the hallway outside, along with the rest of this dull, dull world that tired him to no end. He wanted to tell them to go away and leave him alone, to hurry back to his bed and burrow himself underneath the suffocating blanket until the sun came down and the intruder shooed themselves back to their wretched lair. Then again, whatever plan he had in store would be pointless if he were to do it in his undergarments alone, so he had to cover himself up first. Hurrying back to the bathroom, he whipped the vanity's creaking doors open as his eyes darted around for a fitting towel he can use. Perhaps if he pretended he was about to shower they would avoid the funny looks, even for a moment or two. Thankfully, he managed to find a towel that was short of dust, then tied it around his waist and returned to the living room with a heavy sigh. Best to just get it over with.  
He was surprised to find none other than the young girl from yesterday looking back at him once he opened the door. A wooden washtub rested beside her with a small box inside, along with what seemed to be a ridged metal sheet framed in cheap-looking wood. The question of who it was for was still unanswered. "Uh... Can I... help you?" He reluctantly asked.  
The girl said nothing at first, quietly observing the new tenant with a pair of curious eyes as he shifted in discomfort. Miles always enjoyed being looked at, but this was less than ideal, particularly with a kid that was too silent for her own good, so he decided to try a different approach and pointed at the tub. "Q-Qu'est-ce que c'est? Wh-What is this?" He asked again, wondering if she would understand better in her own language.  
The girl continued on with her quietude, still keeping her eyes over the man before her. However, just as Miles prepared to ask her for the third and last time, she finally spoke.

"It's for you."

Miles blinked, stumped yet relieved that she finally said something, but then it led to the question of why she brought this tub to him in the first place. "This? This can't be mine." He protested, pointing at the tub to emphasize his point.  
"Not yours. For you." The girl corrected him, "Grand-mère told me to bring it to you, said it's laundry time."  
It seemed the old woman was still insistent on offering him a hand, much to Miles's dismay. Nonetheless, he sighed and shook his head. "Goodness, that woman is stubborn." He murmured to himself before turning back to the girl. He had no idea how to use this 'gift' but was also far from eager to start a pointless interrogation that would arouse her suspicion. He sufficed with quietly pulling the tub into his apartment with one of his hands. It was not as light as he thought it to be but he would not dare to admit it out loud, not in front of this young stranger. "Is that all?" He then asked.  
The girl gave him a lazy shrug. "She also asks if you have food here." She added.  
"W-Wait, but why does she--" He questioned before stopping himself, realizing that protesting would be pointless. He closed his eyes and exhaled to regain his composure with grace lest he were to startle the child as he did with her grandmother. "Would you mind telling me why she even wants to know that?" He asked with a calmer tone, needing to get this bother off his chest.  
The girl shrugged her head, not looking too worried about this. "She does it to everyone that comes live here," She explained, "Well, not everyone. Just the new ones."  
Miles raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. "And you don't find that strange? At all?" He pondered in disbelief.  
"I am here, right? That's why I come here and ask you." The young girl retorted with her arms folded "Now do you need food or not?"  
The young man closed his eyes for a moment. Once again pulled into a corner with no chance of escape, it was only the worst in a barrage of fears that lingered in his mind and refused to let go. His inner instincts screamed at him to say something, and he swore he could hear his stomach growling again, threatening to summon a reaction from the clueless visitor. This flurry of emotions swaying within him drove Miles to the brink of desperation, and he had no choice but to say the first answer that came to his mind. "A-Alright, fine." He spouted with a sigh of defeat, his eyes darting left and right to see if anyone approaches them to make things more awkward than they are before glancing back at the child.  
Her brief smile seemed to indicate she was satisfied with his answer. "C'est bon." She then said, hurrying to enjoy whatever privacy she had. She was probably just as uncomfortable as he was, straying far from the comfort of her home for the sake of asking some new bloke a question for her dear grandmother's sake.  
Miles thought it was admirable. Very shy-making and quite ridiculous, but still admirable. He was ready to close the door, but stopped in his tracks as a realization came onto him, and his head made a sharp turn back to the mystery girl.

"Hold on, how can you speak E--"

Too late. The door slammed shut before he could finish the question. An offended huff escaped his lips as he closed the door in front of him with a frown before craning his head down at the tub. He still had that to take care of, and it would be useless to simply stare at the thing all day. Reluctantly, he pulled off his towel and knelt beside the wooden washtub to inspect its contents. His nose crinkled as the smell of artificial soap knifed its way through his unfortunate nostrils. He tried to read the French words printed on the package, although its appearance gave him enough of a clue on its function. He heard mentions of flaked soap, and how common wives used it to wash their laundry without scrubbing it all over the clothes over and over again, an ignoble product for ignoble civilians.  
Then again, what made him different than the rest of them nowadays? He had every excuse to separate himself from the lower-class peasants back in London, but now he had nothing, the worst part being that even if he wanted to learn about this, the crippling fear of revealing his pathetic state to anyone else held him back and forced him to do it all on his own. All he could do was to recollect himself and figure things out for himself before his privacy would be invaded again.  
The first thing he did was to grab himself a much needed cigarette. He was finally able to buy a pack thanks to the daily payment Roger offered him, but not without the painful reminder that he had to keep frugality. Having a pack of twenty meant he could only enjoy a few per week and each time he had to wait for his next smoke felt like an eternity. Then again, no harm would come if he picked out a fag to occupy himself while he does his chores, so he took one out and popped it in his mouth. After finding a matchbox that could be of use, he lit the cigarette up and had a quick rummage through the kitchenette, finding an aging kettle that could be of use and filling it up with tap water before placing the kettle to a boil on his eyesore of a stove. As the water's pressure rose, so did the uneasy feeling that he was biting more than he could chew. Each minute that passed felt longer than the previous one, like the room in his dream that stretched across time and reality to keep him away from the people that he held so close to his heart. If his dreams tell him he will never get his wish, why would reality be any different? Those thoughts gnawed at him and kept him distracted from the harsh reality that always found its way to haunt him and remind that his vanity no longer had purpose and that whatever excuse he had to keep it was no longer relevant. The impact it brought upon him was absolutely unbearable, always pushing him closer to another fit of tears, and yet his neverending sense of pride reined it back just as much. To think he would have to go back and forth with this terrible struggle over and over again because of his damned stubbornness...  
His lamenting was stunted once again thanks to the sound of steam shrieking its way out of the kettle, warning him to take it off before it got too hot to handle. He held back a wince of pain as the heated metal burnt his fingers on his way to the wooden tub, and he wasted no time in pouring the boiling water into it. From there it was nothing but errands from one station to another, which would have been sufferable if not for the deafening silence weighing the air. No matter how quickly he filled up the washtub, it never seemed to be enough and he began worrying that he only deluded himself that he made any progress, and by the time that it was half full he was too tired to continue and moved on to open the package of flaked soap. "How in heaven can they handle this every week?" He grumbled a question to himself, taking another puff of smoke before he poured in the powdered substance inside. Just before giving it a mix, however, another knock on the door was heard. He could only roll his eyes in annoyance and hold back a groan as he picked up the towel and wrapped it around his waist one more time, recalling that it might be his young neighbor coming to bring him the food she promised.  
He hasn't realized until now how much he truly missed the scent of a freshly cooked meal, not until it pierced his nostrils and aggravated his salivary glands. It took Miles all his self-control to tear off his hungering glance from the two plates stacked against one another and look up at the girl, who seemed amused by his reaction. "You look hungry." She teased, her voice reeking with sarcasm.  
For once Miles was thankful she spoke to him, otherwise he would continue staring at his food like a slavering beast. He took out his cigarette and puffed another cloud of smoke to appear more dignified than he really was. "Perhaps, perhaps not." He replied, "It's not a bother, is it?"  
The girl shrugged again, and he could already imagine how much she enjoyed the reaction she provoked out of him. "As long as there is no mess." She answered, her laid back smile caused Miles's insides to clench with unease. Once again, he ended up looking like a fool, and in front of a child no less. How utterly shaming it all was. "Is there anything else you came for?" He asked hurriedly, eager to get back inside and save himself another moment of disgrace.  
"Well, if you ask, I need to know how the tub is doing." The girl obliged him, "I might need it soon."  
Her request caught Miles off, and he could do nothing but blink at her slowly as he struggled to put together an excuse that might work. "I... Er, well... I can explain..." He stammered a reply, swallowing his spit when he caught another glance at the food she hid between the plates, "You see, I tried to, erm, put it to work, but-".  
The girl raised a dubious eyebrow. "It's laundry." She reminded him, unimpressed by his attempt.  
The young man looked down and bit his lower lip. She saw right through him, the clever bantling. He wanted to think of something believable to say, but what was the point? Looking into his apartment for help that will never come, he decided to do as before and just say the first thing coming to his head and spare himself this torture. "I have a lot of... laundries." He replied.  
"How much?" The girl kept asking, much to Miles's dismay.  
"Pots of it."  
"Pots?"  
"Look, it doesn't matter, I promise I'll bring it over in no time." Miles persisted to her with a sigh, "I'll give it to you soon, but you need to be-- Hey!"  
Before he could finish his sentence, the girl slipped inside like the little weasel she was. His heart began to pound against his ribcage and he turned back, ready to spring forth and pull her away from the dastardly sight before it's too late, but he already found her staring at his poor excuse of a laundering in silence. Knowing it can't get any lower than it is now, Miles could do nothing but wait for her reaction, imagining how amusing it would be in her eyes...

"You didn't blend it right. Did you even do that before?"

A confused Miles shifted in his place as he forced himself to look up at the girl who, to his sudden surprise, looked back at him in such a way that had little to no condescendence. Her eyes were nonchalant, barely phased by what she saw, and whatever little annoyance she had in them was more due to him delaying the tub's retrieval rather than his blunder. It caught him off to a point that he needed to clear his throat in order to help and recompose himself. "I, uh... I'm afraid not." He replied, "At least, uh, not as well as others, I suppose."  
He grew quiet as the girl switched glances from him to the tub, then the plate in her hands, and then right back at him. "I can see that." She muttered. She frowned her brow in thought as she made her way towards the small table and placed the plates on it before walking back to Miles, causing the agitated young man to tense up again in response. "Go eat already, I'll do it myself." She let out a sigh as she pointed at the table, "Don't worry, I did this before. Just do it quicker next time."  
It was quite embarrassing to be led around by a girl her age when he was barely dressed, humiliating even, but was he in any position to refuse an act of generosity when he needed it more than ever? Every fiber in his body urged him to say no, to thank her for the meal and send her back home, but he needed to take care of the only set of clothes he had left and he knew for certain that he would never get it done in time. He could feel his cheeks warming from his faux pas as he gave her a nod and went toward the table to begin his meal.  
He gave the girl a furtive glance as he sat down by the table and watched as she continued the chore with such fluid precision his maids could only wish to be capable of. How long was she doing this in order to reach this level of expertise? Months? Years even? He had no clue why it made him interested. Maybe it was the absurdity of a child laboring as any other adult, or perhaps the fact that something that was possibly a regularity in her life seemed so alien to him. He wanted to ask her about it, but he shamed himself enough already and instead turned to take off the top plate and see what was underneath.

_Slices of roast beef and a few boiled potatoes, how could something so plain taste so damn good?_

His dainty features contorted as the tears threatened to make their return, and Miles was relieved to see the girl still looked away from him as he ate. His eyes trailed to the wavering ribbon of smoke of his cigarette, now resting in his ashtray, as it traveled past the window and floated into the skies above. In an unexpected moment of contemplation, he thought of how strange it was that this girl, who could have refused any kindness, still decided to help him. An utter stranger who still gave this miserable bore some hope that tomorrow will be alright, that he still had a reason to keep going.

The girl still hasn't looked yet, but if she had, she would see the brief smile of gratitude on Miles's lips as he finally allowed himself to enjoy his meal in peace.


End file.
